Stupid
by skyeward
Summary: Jack's perspective on love and the people in her life. Her conclusion? Love is stupid. Rated for swears and I guess some sex but not really.


Love is stupid. It is, unequivocally and including unmoderated extranet comment boards, the stupidest thing that has ever existed. If it hadn't been a powerful asset to the survival of the species at some point, I'd wonder where exactly evolution went crashing off the goddamn rails. As it is, I wish humanity had evolved past it before I was born. I don't need this shit.

The problem is that humans are too smart to make mating for life an easy thing. We're not penguins, we don't choose our mates based on a song or a pile of pebbles or what have you. That would be easy! I'd happily build my fucking mountain of little rocks and wait to see which of the fine penguin bitches sidled up to me. But no, humans are too fucking smart for that. We choose based on appearance, on personality, on senses of humour and artistic abilities and interests and hobbies and gender and what we like in bed. Some more than others, but you get the picture.

And sometimes shit goes great. You tumble head over heels, your chosen human (or asari or turian or drell or quarian or what-the-fuck-ever) does the same, and everyone around you gets to deal with your gross puppy love kissy-face and the freaky pet names you give each other. Then, other than your friends abandoning you in droves because _fuck_ would you two stop making out already, everything is just fucking peachy and you ride off into the sunset together. Or, you know, through some crazy fucked-up Mass Relay on a goddamn suicide mission because like 80% of your crew doesn't care if they live or die and the rest just wanna kill stuff. Whatever.

Other times, most of the time, every goddamn time in my whole fucking life, shit goes utterly bananas. You get used, you get hurt, somebody sacrifices his stupid_fucking_ life for you like he's some kind of _goddamn _hero, and before you know it you're fucking whoever looks interesting just to keep from paying attention to the gaping hole in your chest. If you're lucky, you get out of that pit with something treatable. If you're unlucky, you get knocked up or dead.

If you're really unlucky, you fall in love.

If you're really, really, _really_ unlucky, you fall in love with somebody who will never, ever love you back. Have you ever had one of those? I can't decide which is worse: loving somebody who's totally up for a good fuck now and again but is actively hostile at any other time, or loving somebody who loves you and loves to talk to you and hang out with you…as a friend. With no fucking involved. Ever.

Bitch, I don't have friends. Get in my bed or get out of my life.

Or, you know, that's what I wanna say. What I should say. I've geared myself up to say it a million times, but apparently I'm a little bitch who likes being strung along. Fuck, I'm stringing my own goddamn self along, nobody else involved in this one. How pathetic is that?

It's just…with the goddamn questions and the friendly eyes and the concern, with helping me out and just always fucking _being there,_ so…so fucking _good._ Not to mention sexy as hell. I can't handle it and I can't give it up and that just makes me angry. I want you out of my life.

And as for _you_, you…I don't even know what to say to you. I've been places half the galaxy would kill to even glimpse, and I've left my marks there - usually neat half-circles because you like it when I bite you. I've been inside you in the literal sense, sometimes for hours at a time, but I've never seen inside you in a non-sexual way except to be on the receiving end of your anger.

I'm not even completely sure the fucking wasn't just a different form of your anger, actually.

If you were a goody-two-shoes too, you'd be my exact opposite in every way. Luckily you're a criminal just like I am, although you dress it up pretty and give it a name and a logo and a dude with freaky eyes for a leader. Civilized crime, if I can wax a little poetic here, clean and pretty with a rotted core of dead bodies and lies. Like Illium, with fewer contracts.

I don't understand your devotion to that chain-smoking asshole and the whacked-out organization he runs. I don't understand a lot of things about you, and to be honest that makes me angry because I _want_ to. I want _you._ In or out of bed, resting or fighting or fucking, until the Collectors rip our asses to shreds.

Love is so fucking stupid.


End file.
